Hush

Chapter 22: How Are Your Lungs?

A/N: This chapter is short and all over the place and I honestly apologize for that

"Roses are red
Your face is cute
I don't know how to poetry
But I'll try just for you"

Every day before heading to lunch I go to my locker. That's because my backpack is heavier than America's debt, and this is the perfect moment to empty it of the books and notebooks I no longer need, and then stuff it again with books and notebooks I do need for my next classes. My locker has remained the same for three years so you could say I know it inside and out. Everything is organized (to a "ridiculous extent" according to my friends) so I know where to find even the smallest thing, so I immediately notice a blue folded paper that most definitely wasn't mine.

I smile knowingly and bite my lip in an attempt to make my obvious happiness less obvious as I read it.

"What's that?" Eliza asks, glancing up from her new phone.

"Nothing," I say quickly, totally smoothly and not suspicious at all.

She frowns for a second, then smirks. "What is it?" She sings.

"Nothing, really!" I insist, but I already fucked up. She lunges at me and in one quick movement takes the paper.

"Eliza!" I groan.

She gasps. "It's a poem! Definitely not written by you. No signature either." She looks at me excitedly. "You have a secret admirer!"

Ah, shit.

"I guess," I choke out, not sure of what is the appropriate way of reacting to these "news".

"Do you know who could it be?"

A smartass South Carolinian, why? "No idea."

She squeals a bit. "This is so cute! We have to tell the guys,"

Before I can even close my locker properly, I'm being dragged to the cafeteria by a short, hyperactive half-Asian teen and there's nothing I can do about it. Silently I thank every god in existence for the fact that John decided to leave his cute poem unsigned, I don't even want to think of what would've happened if Eliza out of all people found out. As much as I love and appreciate her, she can't keep a secret to save her own life.

"Sup!" She salutes as we sit down. She gives me back the note (thankfully) and pulls out a cinnamon roll from her yellow lunch bag.

Meade snorts. "Eliza, you can't eat cinnamon, that's cannibalism," He jokes.

Without even glancing at him, Eliza bites at the pastry and says "Don't ever call me a cinnamon roll again or I'll eat your fucking kneecaps. Anyway, Alexander has a secret admirer!"

Kitty shrieks, Lafayette nearly spits out his coco milk, and Peggy looks like she's about to cry.

"How's that?" Angelica asks, feigning calmness but secretly very interested.

"They left a note on his locker, isn't that cute?"

"That's kinda creepy," Lafayette frowns.

"You've clearly never read fanfiction," Meade said. "It's probably the popular chick or the bad boy,"

Peggy snorts so hard people from other tables turn to look at her. "Who? John Laurens? You think that waffle bitch really be leaving cute little notes on Alexander's locker? Really?"

At the mention of his name I feel my heart stop on its tracks for a second. These hypotheticals suddenly got way too close to reality for comfort.

Meade shrugs. "I'm just saying,"

"Alexander's too good for people like that anyway," Layette scoffs.

"I mean, true. What if it's, like, John Andre or something?"

Everyone in proximity immediately sighs dreamily at the mention of his name.

"Alexander wishes John Andre was his secret admirer!" Angelica laughs.

"Hey!" I say now that my heart resumed its usual beating again. "I'm quite a prize myself, I'd look amazing with John Andre,"

"Bitch you wish,"

Only a few hours later, I slide down the wall behind the school with a blush painted in my cheeks as I reread the poem. It's short and not actually poetic at all and yet so stupidly John I cant help but tuck it in a special place in my heart, even if it probably took like five minutes for him to come up with and write.

"Hey, John." I say when I hear footsteps approach.

He blushes as he sits down next to me, not too close but not too far either. "I see you found the- uh, the thing,"

"The thing," I mock him. "Yes I found your poem you absolute dork,"

"That's offensive," He deadpans, pretending his face isn't doing it's best cosplay of Clifford The Big Red Dog.

I roll my eyes and quickly kiss his blushing cheek. "Thank you." I whisper.

He looks down to avoid my eyes, but I can still see the little smile forming on his lips. "It's nothin', really. Just thought it'd be funny."

"Mmm."

"Wha— you think I'm like, secretly a romantic or something?"

"Oh no, I would never insult your honor like that,"

He snorts. "That's what I thought,"

That day at the swing set John and I talked a lot, which was an interesting experience to say at least because basic communication is ridiculously hard. I did learn that the bruise on his jaw was because he decided to climb a tree "out of frustration" only to fall from the third branch. He also assured me that no, the alcohol is not an usual thing, just for special occasions like when the urge to jump off a cliff gets particularly strong. Which is probably not a good idea, but we'll work on that, together. We didn't settle on a strict label for us but we both seem to like "boyfriend". A lot. Boundaries are weird, but when aren't they? I'm not always sure if I'm allowed to kiss him, or if I'm comfortable with him kissing me.

On the mean time, I think cute little notes are enough. And I can say that without lying to myself this time.